


Brother Mine

by OMSP



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-15 05:52:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/846053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OMSP/pseuds/OMSP
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The aftermath of a brutal case causes both Sherlock and John to examine themselves. Until tragedy throws everything into a tailspin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1. Bad News

“I nearly lost you,” he whispered.

Sherlock gave no indication he had heard his companion’s quiet words. He just continued to stare out of the window, not really seeing the wet London streets passing. He was well aware that he had taken a risk by running after the SoHo Slasher ( _Ugh, what an awful nickname. Blame Anderson for that one. One slip of his tongue and the press were having a headline extravaganza_ ) instead of waiting for Lestrade and his merry band of idiots to catch up to them. But it was either give chase and catch the young, deranged man, or lose him completely and give him ample time to kill again.

He didn’t let on that he’d heard John speak, but the words weighed heavily on him. The bruising around his neck and the burning in his lungs were other reminders that he’d come close to death tonight. Again. He normally found that dwelling on what-ifs was a colossal waste of time, but ever since John - sweet, deadly John - had entered his life he found himself examining his choices more than he cared to admit. He would replay the finale to the case later on to see if there had been another, safer way to capture the killer that wouldn’t have put John in such a difficult moral position. He was positive he’d come to the conclusion that there really was no other way but at least he’d be able to assure John of that fact and hopefully ease the man’s mind a bit.

That surprised him. He even twitched slightly in his seat as he realized he wanted to _assure John_ of something. That stray epiphany led to another as he realized he actually _cared_ what John thought of him. _Oh Mycroft would have a bloody field day if he saw me right now. Glad he wasn’t at the scene. I’d never hear the end of it._

Sherlock continued down the various paths his thoughts took. He recognized the feeling of anxiety as he wondered if John was finally fed up with him enough to leave. He struggled to work out how he could make John understand why he did the things he did. He knew he appeared to be self-absorbed and callous most of the time but surely John knew by now that everything he did had a reason. It was hardly his fault that chaos theory dictated that not everything could be predicted with 100% accuracy. He knew the statistical probability of where the killer would hole up as well as the likelihood of the Met meeting them there on time. He had told John to text Lestrade the location as they gave chase. He could hardly be responsible for John’s inability to text and run at the same time.

He continued to attempt to rationalize his actions in his head and build up a solid case against John leaving him but a small section of his racing mind thought about how this short, innocuous man had once again killed for him. People always underestimated John, and Sherlock knew that he often took full advantage of this fact. He was a shorter-than-average man with sandy, blond hair and kind eyes who wore fuzzy jumpers and comfortable jeans. He fascinated Sherlock in a way that no other person had. He admired and was slightly jealous of John’s ability to navigate the social niceties that so often troubled him. He came to rely on John’s ability to get a witness to talk simply by being affable. Sherlock had to practice his "nice guy" persona whereas with John, it just came naturally. It saved so much time. And yet Sherlock knew that underneath his cozy exterior lurks a hard man. A man who has seen battle and lived to tell. A man who is unfailingly loyal. A man who has a temper that he works very hard to control.

The only other person who came close to capturing Sherlock’s attention the way John did was his own brother - not that he would admit to that. But he did enjoy their verbal battles more than he let on. Especially when he seemed to win them once in awhile. But Mycroft knew him too well, having the advantage of age and constant familiarity as they grew up together. John, though... John was new.

~

John didn’t speak again for the rest of the ride. He just stared at the back of the cabbie’s head, lost in his own thoughts. His arms were sore from wrenching the killer off of Sherlock and wrestling him into a choke hold of his own that eventually squeezed the life out of the man. He’d only intended to render him unconscious, but the sight of Sherlock’s struggle had lit a fire in John’s belly and the only emotion he felt in that moment was an all-consuming fear.

He didn’t think at all. He just reacted. He gripped the man harming Sherlock and pulled him backwards until he was able to wind his arms around the man’s neck in a standard chokehold position. Adrenaline coursed through him and gave him an iron strength that the other man simply could not break. John held fast against the man’s struggles but was positioned in such a way that he could see Sherlock on the floor, who wasn’t moving. The killer beat ineffectually at John’s arms, clawing at them, but he grew weaker as John gripped tighter until finally the man simply gave up. John dropped him and stepped over his body without another thought before falling to his knees and worriedly checking Sherlock for signs of life. He choked out a relieved sob when he felt a weak pulse. When he realized that Sherlock was breathing, albeit somewhat raggedly, he leaned forward until his forehead was touching Sherlock’s chest and he exhaled hard. When he came to, John thought, he was going to kill him.

~

Sherlock finally noticed that they were nearing home. He glanced over at his friend and debated whether he should attempt to reassure him now or later. He wanted John to understand that his compulsion to rush into danger wasn’t because he was chasing thrills. He didn’t need the “glory” of capture or to take the credit. He only ever wanted to solve the puzzle. He never intended to be in danger. It just always seemed to work out that way despite his best predictions. The bitter irony was that he was in trouble with John for _not thinking_ before he acted.

But John was determinedly looking away from Sherlock. His posture and measured breathing indicated to the detective that John wouldn’t really listen his excuses. At least, not right now. Sherlock huffed a quiet sigh and resumed staring out of his window until the cab parked at Baker Street. John shoved some money at the cabbie before Sherlock could do it and quickly headed for the door.

Sherlock joined him as John fumbled in his various pockets searching for his keys. He placed his hand on John’s shoulder, temporarily stilling him.

“John,” he said, his voice quiet and low. “I’m sorry.”

Startled by an actual apology from Sherlock, John turned to face the taller man and looked him in the eye. “You nearly died. Again,” he said as glared. “I don’t know how to stop you from being you though.” John reached up and gripped Sherlock’s hand on his shoulder. “So, I guess I will just have to keep saving your sorry arse.” Then John smiled.

Sherlock took in many details in that moment. John stood in a strained military stance, shoulders back, chin jutting forward. There was still the tense anger in him as noted by the tight grip on his hand. The smile seemed incongruous with his bearing, but he felt relieved and pleased all the same.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I was nowhere near death.”

“Those bruises around your throat and state of near-asphyxiation you were in would say otherwise Sherlock. You...” John sighed and rolled his eyes as he copped onto Sherlock’s ploy to get him talking. “Oh for fuck’s sake. Let’s just get inside so I can sort out your injuries you prat.”

Sherlock allowed his mouth to twitch into a partial grin as John turned around once again and unlocked the door to 221B. If he hadn’t been distracted by John during one of his Captain-in-the-Army moments, he might have noticed the sleek black Jaguar parked a few spaces down from Speedy’s. But he did not.

Instead, when they stepped into the sitting room of their flat, they were greeted by Mrs. Hudson who was sniffling on the sofa near the door and looking at Sherlock with such anguish in her normally kind eyes that he was taken aback for a moment. He stepped closer to her, puzzled.

“Mrs. Hudson?”

“Oh Sherlock...” she moaned, her voice catching on his name. She pressed a tissue to her mouth and looked away.

John glanced toward the fireplace as he noticed some movement from that direction. “Anthea,” he said, his voice breaking through Sherlock’s confusion and concern for Mrs. Hudson. “What’s going on?”

Sherlock turned from Mrs. Hudson to Anthea. In the dim light of the room it was difficult to scrutinize her facial expressions but he could see that her eyes were puffy, her clothing was slightly wrinkled when normally she was immaculate, and most noticeable, she didn’t have her Blackberry in either hand.

She stood up and walked over to Sherlock who was still standing in the doorway. John stared as she moved, unsure of what was going on. To him, Sherlock looked distressed but he was trying to hide it. He saw him stretch and then clench his hands several times as she moved. Like he was preparing himself.

Sherlock continued to stare at Anthea.

“Where is my brother?” he asked, his voice so low it was barely audible.

Anthea raised her eyes to meet Sherlock’s. With an uncharacteristic hitch in her voice she said, “I’m so sorry Sherlock. Mycroft died at 6:07pm.”

Mrs. Hudson began to sob as Anthea attempted to take Sherlock’s hand to comfort him. But Sherlock would have none of it. He backed away, nearly running into John who had yet to step fully into the sitting room. John gasped, “Wh- what happened?”

Sherlock looked wildly about the room. John took an involuntary step back as the full force of Sherlock’s gaze hit him like solid punch. He’d never seen such anguish in his friend’s eyes. Real, unadulterated anguish. It terrified him.

“Sher-” he started to say just as Anthea took another step toward the detective. She reached for his hands again, but he yanked them away from her. Sherlock then took a deep, shaky breath, turned on his heel and walked to his bedroom. John heard what he thought could have been a cough. Or a sob.


	2. Chapter 2. When we were young

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse into the past.

“Sherlock!” called Mycroft as he made his way down the cavernous hallway. The little bugger had taken to hiding at mealtimes and Mummy had sent him to fetch his wayward brother. Mycroft knew Sherlock only did it for attention. For _his_ attention, rather. He felt a little stab of guilt because he had been unable to spend much time with the boy this summer. His father had insisted that Mycroft utilize the tutor he’d brought in so that the young man would have a jump on his studies when he returned to Harrow in the Fall. Mycroft had been unhappy with this new development as he spent much of his time at school looking forward to coming home and spending time with his much-missed little brother.

Sherlock, of course, was acting out and thinking up newer and more dramatic ways to get Mycroft’s attention. He was quite a precocious 6 year-old with an astonishing vocabulary, and yet he was not quite wise enough yet in the art of subterfuge. Mycroft could hear little feet shuffling behind the thick curtains in their father’s study. He removed his own shoes and crept as stealthily as he could toward the wriggling child. With a dramatic whoosh, he flung back the curtain and cried, “Gotchya!” as he scooped up his giggling brother and carried him out of the room.

“Myyyyyc I’m not hungry. Mrs. Broadmore said she was cooking pheasants for dinner tonight and I hate them.”

Mycroft continued down the hallway carrying a squirming Sherlock. “Why do you hate them? What have they ever done to you?”

Sherlock giggled. “Nuffink.”

Mycroft looked at Sherlock and raised an eyebrow.

“Nothing,” the boy said again, rolling his eyes correcting himself. “They just taste revolting. ‘Specially the way Mrs. Broadmore cooks them.”

With an exaggerated sigh, Mycroft set Sherlock down and took his hand as they made their way to the dining room. “Dear brother, just eat a bite or two. There are carrots as well and you like those well enough. Now, I am afraid Mummy is dreadfully upset that you didn’t appear on time and so she will likely deny you dessert.”

“Awwwww,” the boy whined.

“I’ll be happy to sneak some up to your room before you go to bed, but you must promise me to at least try to be pleasant at the table and eat a little bit. Mrs. Broadmore prepared flummery, your favourite.”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up. “Oh yes! Okay Mycroft. I’ll be good. Just don’t forget, okay? And will you read me a story as well?”

“Yes, of course. What shall it be tonight? I haven’t got any lessons in the morning so maybe we can stay up a bit late. What do you say?”

Sherlock clapped his hands together with glee. “Let’s stay up all night!”

“You must get some sleep, little brother,” Mycroft chided.

Sherlock tutted. “Sleep is boring.”

“You always say that and yet somehow you manage to get there in the end. Now... What do you say to a bit of Peter Pan?” he asked, knowing full well Pan was Sherlock’s current favourite.

“Ohhhhh yes, Myc! I’ll read Cap’n Hook’s bits. I love the pirates! Do you really think you can have a hook for a hand? Are there any people in real life who use a hook? Why would anyone want a hook anyway? I think it would be dreadful and catch on everything. Do you think Smee helps him put his hook on, Mycroft? Or can he do it himself with just the one normal hand?”

Mycroft smiled at Sherlock and indulged in his endless prattle about Captain Hook until they reached the dining room at last. Then he simply held a finger to his lips, shushing the boy as they entered. Sherlock straightened up immediately and walked serenely to his place at the table, climbed into his chair and carefully placed the cloth napkin in his lap as he’d been taught.

“Good evening Mummy. I ‘pologise for being late and for making you send Mycroft to fetch me.”

Violet Holmes had to hold her own napkin to her lips as she tried to suppress a smile. She adored Sherlock’s high spirits and often indulged him - as long as he minded his manners.

“Sherlock, dear you know very well that dinner is served at six o’clock. What on earth kept you this time? Another experiment?”

“No. I was hiding from Mycroft and I didn’t have my watch on. But he found me and here I am!” he grinned.

Although the Holmes family was gathered in the formal dining room, it was only Mrs. Holmes and her two sons who dined there on most evenings. Mr. Holmes joined them when he was home, which wasn’t very often. But Mrs. Holmes was old-fashioned and preferred to adhere to tradition which dictated that the family dine formally every evening. Often it was the only time she could have both of her beloved sons in one place and so she relished this time together.

“Why were you hiding from your brother?” Violet asked as she signalled for the soup to be brought in.

“Because I never get to see him anymore so why should he get to see me when he wants?” came the reply.

Startled, both Violet and Mycroft looked at each other, each with a hint of guilt in their eyes. The boy was so honest. However inadvertently, Sherlock had just given voice to the concerns they each had about Mycroft’s new tutoring sessions. She was well aware of how close the brothers were and she took great pride in nurturing their devotion to each other believing that one day, Mycroft would be in a position to guide Sherlock and look after him as only a brother could. Therefore she was as disturbed as Mycroft had been when they learned of Mr. Holmes’ plans for Mycroft’s tutor. She had argued valiantly, but in vain against the idea but her stern husband would have none of it. To him, Mycroft represented the future of the Holmes family and estate. Sherlock was the “spare” and would be well-educated and cared for, but it was on Mycroft that his father pinned the weight and responsibility of the future.

Mycroft looked at the boy across the table. He seemed so small in the overwhelming dining chair and he felt a flood of warmth in his chest. Sherlock was busy slurping soup and not paying much attention to his family. He didn’t see his mother’s eyes moisten just a little as she clutched at her napkin. He failed to notice Mycroft staring at him. So often it’s the children who speak the plainest truths.

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, his mother interrupted. “Sherlock dear how would you and Mycroft like to spend the day in town tomorrow, just the two of you?” she asked. Mycroft began to protest as he did have afternoon lessons with his tutor but his mother put her hand up. “Mycroft, I will arrange for your tutor to have the week off and will deal with your father when he returns. It would please me if the two of you could have at least a little bit of time together this summer.”

“Oh yes please Mummy! I want to go to the sweets shop and the little park with the pond in the middle and then the bookshop, I think. Mycroft, can we also stop in and see old Mr. Blackburn before we return home? He tells wonderful pirate stories you know. Better than Captain Hook if you want my opinion. Oh! Mummy, Mycroft promised to read Peter Pan with me later. Is that all right? He’s promised to let me be Hook.”

“Sherlock dear, slow down a little. Carry on with your soup, or if you’ve finished I’ll ring for the main course. Now... of course Mycroft may read Peter Pan with you. I am sure you make a smashing Captain Hook.” Sherlock beamed. “As for tomorrow, Mycroft will no doubt be happy to let you visit some of those places, but you must remember that he may have places he wishes to visit as well. You must learn to compromise.” At this, Sherlock scowled briefly but only Mycroft noticed and he chuckled at the boy. His little brother was not known for his ability to compromise.

“It’s all right Mummy. I have no place special I need to visit,” Mycroft said as he smiled at Sherlock. “We’ll make our plans in the morning. Until then, let’s finish this lovely meal Mrs. Broadmore has prepared and then we’ll retire for the evening.”

“All right, Myc,” Sherlock replied. “And... thank you.”

Pleased with his manners, Mrs. Holmes changed the subject and the little family enjoyed a pleasant dinner together.

By the time Mrs. Holmes retreated to her rooms in order to catch up on some correspondence and to sort out Mycroft’s tutor, the brothers had washed and disappeared into their part of the manor. Mycroft had pulled out a lovely bound copy of Peter Pan and Sherlock had adorned himself in a pirate’s hat from his toy room. Mycroft got the boy settled next to him on the bed and began to read with an enthusiastic Sherlock piping in during “Captain Hook’s bits.”

The next day began happily enough. Sherlock shivered when he woke up and discovered that not only had Mycroft fallen asleep next to him, but he’d also nicked all of the blankets. He grabbed a corner, fully intending to yank them right off of Mycroft but instead he ended up tumbling forwards as Mycroft gripped the blankets from underneath and held fast. Mycroft had woken a few minutes before Sherlock and knew exactly what the boy would do.

Sherlock giggled and shrieked as he engaged Mycroft in a tug-of-war battle for supremacy over the bed. Eventually, Mycroft let Sherlock “win” and without fully understanding why he did it, he pulled the squirming boy into his arms and hugged him tight.

“I love you, you know. You little monster,” he said softly into the boy’s ear.

“Love you too Myc. Now let... me... GO!” and with that, Sherlock was released and he ran off to get started on their fun day ahead.

It was close to 5 p.m. when the brothers returned to the estate. The day had been as much fun for Mycroft as it had been for Sherlock but now the younger brother was showing signs of exhaustion. They had walked the three miles to the nearby village, Sherlock skipping ahead eagerly while Mycroft chose a more stately amble. They visited Mr. Blackburn, the owner of the small country pub whose cheery wife offered the boys an assortment of biscuits and some lemonade. Mr. Blackburn regaled Sherlock with old pirate tales and the boy listened intently, absorbing every single detail until he could recite the stories himself to Mycroft after they took their leave. Then it was a romp through the park with the pond, a long and leisurely visit to the small bookshop, and finally a quick visit to the sweet shop attached to the newsagent.

Sherlock’s feet were dragging as they made their way up the drive and he was unnaturally quiet so Mycroft picked him up and carried him the rest of the way. Sherlock’s head of unruly dark curls nestled snugly in the crook of his neck and Mycroft felt quite content.

It did not last very long.

As he walked around the back of the manor, Mycroft’s posture stiffened and he stifled a gasp when he spotted his father’s towncar near the garages. _“What is father doing home?”_ he thought as he slowly walked to the servant’s entrance. He felt, as he often did when his father was near, apprehensive and fearful.

As soon as they entered the manor, Mrs. Broadmore came bustling toward them, agitated.

“Mycroft young sir, your da is waiting for you in ‘is study. ‘E said not to be dawdlin’ and to be sure to bring young Master Sherlock with you,” she fretted.

“All right, Mrs. Broadmore. Thank you letting me know,” Mycroft replied.

Sherlock, who had drifted to sleep in Mycroft’s arms, woke and began to squirm to get down. “Let me down, Myc. I can walk.”

Mycroft set him down gently but held onto his hand. “I’m afraid father is home Sherlock and has asked for us. We’re to go to his study immediately.”

Sherlock stiffened. “Oh,” he said and followed along. If he gripped Mycroft’s hand a little tighter, Mycroft pretended not to notice.

As the two of them entered the study, Siger Holmes was finishing his second glass of whiskey.

“Ah. My boys. You have finally arrived,” he said as he set the crystal tumbler on his desk. He stood up and walked over to them. “What could you have been doing this afternoon when you, Mycroft, were meant to be studying with your very expensive tutor?”

Mycroft swallowed, anxious to deflect any blame from his mother. He opted to simply state the truth. Or part of it. “I took Sherlock into town for the day. It was so beautiful outside and the boy has been cooped up in the house for too long.” He made a decision to stretch the truth a little bit. “I can make up the time, Father. I asked the tutor to return for a make-up session on Saturday morning.”

“DON’T LIE TO ME, BOY!” Siger yelled, grabbing Mycroft at the lapels of his jacket. Sherlock ran forward to try and protect his older brother, but Siger would have none of it and he shoved Sherlock aside so harshly that he tripped and landed on his backside. Mycroft gripped his father’s wrists and did his best to maintain a calm demeanor. But he was a boy himself, really. Just 13 and already expected to shoulder so much. He glanced down at his brother who was still on the floor looking stunned.

“Father please don’t hurt Sherlock. He’s just being protective.”

“He’s in the way,” Siger replied through gritted teeth. “And you, Mycroft, are lying to me and I WILL NOT HAVE THAT!” Siger’s voice could switch from deadly calm to raging bull so swiftly that it’s sheer unpredictability often frightened Mycroft. “Your mother has already told me she planned to give the tutor a week off, so do not attempt to cover for her again. I cut short a very important business meeting to get back here and deal with the three of you and I will not have you stand before me and LIE. Do you understand?”

“Yes Father.”

Sherlock had risen to his unsteady feet and was slowly making his way toward Mycroft again. Unbidden tears streaked down the little boy’s face as he listened to his father continue to rant at Mycroft. He listened as he informed Mycroft that his brother was “in the way” and “of no consequence.” He watched as his father paced back and forth in front of Mycroft and told him that he would definitely not be getting a week off from his studies. Sherlock hid behind Mycroft’s legs as he stood stiffly and silently and let his father yell at him.

Mycroft knew from experience that one does not attempt to defend themselves for their actions when Siger was this worked up. One simply stood their ground and answered when asked a direct question. He felt Sherlock cling to the back of his legs and silently wished he had left Sherlock in the care of Mrs. Broadmore. He despised his father for the way he neglected his brother. Siger would often quite literally shove Sherlock out of his way. Surely Sherlock took notice of that behavior as well. It was one of the reasons Mycroft was so determined to show affection to the boy. He knew what it was like to be lonely. After all, he’d had no one himself until his brother was born.

“You will resume your studies first thing in the morning, boy. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Good,” Siger said before seating himself once more behind his ornate desk. “Take your brother and go.”

“Why -” Mycroft blurted before he could stop himself. Siger glared at his son.

“Why what? Spit it out.”

Mycroft gulped. No going back now. “Why did you ask Mrs. Broadmore for both of us? Why is Sherlock here. You’ve not said a word to him.”

Siger reached for the decanter and poured himself another whiskey. He sipped it slowly as he gazed intently at his youngest son who was peering out from behind Mycroft’s legs.

“The boy needs discipline. You and your mother spoil him and he’s allowed to run wild all over the estate. Your mother sent your tutor away out of some misguided desire to give in to the boy. She put his needs above yours when you are the one who will take over this family and our interests when I am gone. Should something unfortunate happen to you, then I suppose it will be Sherlock who will bear that responsibility. He may as well learn now that you do not cross me. Ever. I included him in my summons so that he may witness the consequences of yours and your mother’s inappropriate decision.” He took another sip of his drink. “Always plan ahead Mycroft. For every contingency.”

Mycroft nodded curtly at his father before taking Sherlock’s little hand and pulling the boy from the room. All previous happiness totally undone in that brief interview with his father. Together they went swiftly to their wing. Sherlock did his best to keep up with Mycroft’s long strides.

When they entered Sherlock’s room, Mycroft told the boy he should hurry and get washed because dinner time was fast approaching and it would not do to be late this time. Not with Father home. The boy was unusually subdued as he did what he was told and Mycroft left for his own room to do the same. They met again in the hallway and made their way toward the dining room. Just outside the door though, Sherlock tugged on Mycroft’s hand and asked, “Myc? Why does Father dislike me so? Is it because I’m bad?”

Mycroft’s heart splintered a little when he heard Sherlock’s questions. He would cheerfully murder his father if it erased the child’s torment. Sherlock was such a vibrant boy, full of life, exuberance, and so much inquisitiveness. Mycroft often felt that Sherlock simply absorbed knowledge like a sponge. Why couldn’t Father see what everyone else could? He was beloved by the house staff, everyone they met in the village took an instant liking to the boy, even perfect strangers would smile and ruffle Sherlock’s curls if he marched up to them and demanded an answer to whatever had piqued his curiosity. Why did Father treat him so disdainfully? It was a question Mycroft often struggled with, especially after an incident like the one earlier in his study.

Crouching down to Sherlock’s level, Mycroft answered, “You are not bad, Sherlock. Mischievous, certainly,” he grinned. “But never bad. Father just doesn’t get to see you as often as the rest of us do. He hardly knows you. Please don’t take what he says to heart, little brother.”

Sherlock flung his arms around Mycroft’s neck. “Okay Myc. I won’t.”

“I will alway look out for you, Sherlock. Remember that,” Mycroft whispered.

~

Sherlock stared down at the photograph in his hands. After Anthea’s announcement, he’d come into his room and slipped the image out from behind the framed periodic table on his wall. In it, Mycroft was gazing upwards with his arms outstretched while a very young Sherlock was preparing to jump from the lower branches of a tree into Mycroft’s arms. Both boys were obviously laughing. The photo had been taken by their mother one sunny day as the three of them had a small picnic on the grounds of the Holmes estate.

Sherlock closed his eyes as the tears began to fall. Clutching the photograph, he curled in on himself on the bed and cried for his brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first attempt to write Sherlock fic and first foray into putting something on AO3. I know it's heavy grief stuff and now fluffy kid stuff, and it's only going to get worse before it gets better, but this is the story that came out of my head for the first Let's Write Sherlock challenge:
> 
> "After a nearly disastrous case, Sherlock and John share a tense taxi ride back to Baker Street. With emotions running high, they finally arrive back at 221B, and then…"


	3. Chapter 3. Fallout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's grief is unexpected.

John collapsed in his chair near the fire. Someone, probably Mrs. Hudson, had thoughtfully built it up to get some heat in the room. Anthea quietly took Sherlock’s seat across from John while Mrs. Hudson busied herself in the kitchen making tea.

“What happened?” John asked again, his voice low and quiet.

As if reciting by rote, Anthea responded, “At approximately 4 P.M., Mr. Holmes was in his office working when he suddenly pitched forward without warning and collapsed at his desk. I was seated across from him at the time. I hurried to his side and lifted him backwards into his chair. His eyes were closed and I could not visually tell if he was breathing. There was blood dripping from his nose. I felt for his pulse and it was thready and faint. I hit the panic button installed on his phone console. Security entered the room and asked me to step aside. They instituted resuscitative measures including CPR until medical help arrived which was at 4:13 P.M. Mr. Holmes’ eyes were open the entire time.”

Anthea took a steadying breath and her glance shifted toward the hall that led to Sherlock’s bedroom. John watched her, concern gnawing at his insides. As a doctor, a myriad of causes ran through his mind as she presented the scenario. Poison? No way to know without a toxicology report. Heart attack? Stroke? Aneurysm? Whatever the cause, John was very worried for Sherlock. He should be hearing this, if only so that Anthea wouldn’t have to repeat herself. He could tell that she was fighting to maintain a calm exterior as she explained, but as the one person in the world aside from Sherlock who knew Mycroft Holmes the best, it was proving difficult.

John leaned forward and stretched to take her hand. “Please go on. I’ll tell Sherlock all of this when he returns. He’s probably... well, I don’t know, but it’s probably best to leave him be until he comes out of his room.” Anthea nodded. Mrs. Hudson carried in tea in mismatched mugs, including one for Sherlock, but it stayed there on the tray, alone, growing cold.

“The security team carried Mr. Holmes to one of the cars and I rode with him. He seemed catatonic. Nobody was able to get any sort of reaction from him. No pupil dilation, no blinks, nothing. He was still breathing, however it was shallow and disjointed. It was almost like he would occasionally forget to take a breath and then suddenly remember.”

John frowned. “That sounds like his body was shutting down.”

“Yes,” Anthea replied. She looked away from John and moved to take a sip of her tea, but her hand was shaking. “We had a plan, Mr. Holmes and I. Should he ever become incapacitated, I was to immediately call for security and depending on the circumstances, I was to alert the nearest hospital for immediate admittance. I did so, and when we arrived at the A&E, Mr. Holmes was directed straight into one of the emergency bays and physicians began a battery of tests.”

Mrs. Hudson continued to sniffle quietly to herself while John did his best to encourage Anthea to go on. He could see that reciting the timeline of events was painful to her. He realized then that the woman had been more than just the bubble-headed errand girl he had mistaken her for. It was painfully obvious that she had been much more to Mycroft.

“Mr. Holmes never regained consciousness, I am told. He was being monitored but at 5:55 p.m. he coded. The staff did everything they could, but at 6:07 p.m. he was pronounced dead. It is unclear what has caused this chain of events, John. One minute he was fine, the next, gone.”

“Thank you.”

Anthea looked up, startled. Sherlock had come out of his room, but he had been quiet and stayed just out of everyone’s line of sight. “F-for what?” she asked.

Sherlock looked down at the floor and remained quiet for a moment. “For being there with him.” he quietly replied. His voice sounded low and rough. John stood up and tried to go to him, but Sherlock backed away. “Just one question for now, Anthea,” he said as he looked at her with a piercing stare. Anthea braced herself as if she knew what he was going to ask. “In the approximately two hours where my brother was still alive, why, Anthea, did no one attempt to call me?”

Anthea slumped in the chair. “I will not bother to make excuses, Sherlock. I have none. It simply did not occur to me that My- that Mr. Holmes would not pull through. It was... so sudden. So unexpected. I knew you and John were out on a case and I didn’t...” Anthea began to cry. “I expected him to stabilize. To come out of it, whatever ‘it’ was. I’m so sorry, Sherlock. I’m so sorry.”

John moved swiftly to embrace Anthea, surprised by her emotion. This was a woman who thought nothing of picking up strange men and delivering them to her boss in empty parking garages. A woman who rarely looked up from her Blackberry to notice the world around her. Clearly there was more to her than that. He caressed her hair as she leaned into him. Turning his head, he stared at Sherlock, dumbfounded.

Sherlock stood in the shadows of the kitchen. The glow from the fire throwing occasional glints of light onto his face. His tearstained face. Sherlock was gripping the frame of the door separating the sitting room from the kitchen so tightly his knuckles had gone white. John looked pleadingly at Mrs. Hudson and gestured for her to come take over comforting Anthea. When she did, John immediately went to his friend. He half expected Sherlock to step away again. When he didn’t, John reached up and tentatively put his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. Sherlock blinked several times, tears falling unheeded down his cheeks and he let go of the door and gripped John’s forearms instead.

“Sherlock...” John whispered.

“My brother. John? He’s...” Anguish filled every word Sherlock tried to speak. John was at a loss. This reaction was so unlike anything he had ever seen. Sherlock could give masterclasses on acting. He could cry on command. But this... this was unadulterated sorrow. This was no act. This was shock. This was panic. This was disbelief. This was regret.

Sherlock’s legs gave out on him and he collapsed to his knees, dragging John down with him. Somehow they ended up entangled. John’s strong, steady arms wrapped around his best friend and he held him as Sherlock buried his head in the crook of John’s neck and sobbed. John rocked him and whispered meaningless comforting words. He stroked Sherlock’s back and absorbed every shudder wrenched from his grieving friend.

John did not attempt to stop Sherlock from crying. He somehow knew that if he did, Sherlock would bottle up everything and tamp it down into some dark corner of the Mind Palace where it would fester. Although it surprised the hell out of him to witness this deep emotion from his self-proclaimed sociopathic friend, he felt like he needed to be a witness to it. He felt that perhaps Sherlock needed someone to see his pain, to know he didn’t need to grieve alone.

John himself was in shock. In the time that he had known Mycroft, he’d become a bit of a buffer to some of Sherlock’s craziness. Someone John could go to when he didn’t understand Sherlock’s behaviour. Mycroft always made time for him and would patiently listen when John needed to vent, or to ask questions, or to just satisfy his own curiosity. Not that John was always bothering Mycroft, but he felt the two of them had reached a tacit, friendly understanding, if not a full-on friendship.

John was also bewildered by Sherlock’s reaction. It went against almost everything he knew about the brothers. Sherlock and Mycroft’s relationship was best described by John as contentious. They both seemed to enjoy baiting each other but it was normally Mycroft who bested Sherlock in matters of deduction and John often thought Sherlock chafed against his brother’s mightier intelligence. He did so hate to be wrong.

When John first met Mycroft, he had been put off by the man’s mysterious behaviour. He’d felt threatened - never frightened, but definitely threatened. Later, after learning that the man was actually his new friend’s weird brother, he often shared Sherlock’s contemptuous nature towards him, feeling like an ally of sorts. But as time went on, he came to appreciate Mycroft’s subtle ability to reign Sherlock in when he was getting too wild even for John. He acted as the buffer that often kept John from killing Sherlock when he was in one of his manic moods.

Once in a great while, John would catch a look or a word between the brothers that spoke of an underlying affection. Perhaps something shared as children that kept them bonded together as adults. John never found out because Sherlock rarely spoke of his childhood. And Mycroft wasn’t the sort of man he felt could ask that sort of thing of either. As John sat on the floor holding Sherlock, he thought about those few moments he’d glimpsed.

Once, just before the Moriarty incident at the pool, John had overheard a snippet of conversation between Sherlock and Mycroft as he returned the Bruce Partington plans.

_“Still looking out for me brother?” Sherlock had said._

_“Always,” came Mycroft’s reply._

It wasn’t much, but it was sentimental enough to make John feel embarrassed that he had overheard. But he thought about that moment now and again, especially when one brother had been especially scathing to the other. After that, John often noticed an undercurrent of something between the brothers that he had begun to understand was love. Their own bizarre brand of love, but love nonetheless.

Sherlock curled around John, clinging to him as his sobbing began to abate. John just held him tighter and continued to stroke his back hoping he was a comfort. John was going on pure instinct at this point.

John wasn’t sure how much time had passed. He was dimly aware that Mrs. Hudson and Anthea had left the flat at some point. He was glad. He didn’t think Sherlock would want many people seeing him like this. That Sherlock was allowing him a glimpse into his emotions made John feel extremely protective of his friend. He felt his pain, even if he didn't understand it yet. So John did what he could to provide him with comfort and perhaps some strength. Sherlock was going to need it in the days and weeks to come.

Sherlock finally quieted and John shifted so that he could look Sherlock in the eyes. “What can I do, Sherlock? What do you need?”

Sherlock stared at John with swollen, red eyes. “I need my brother, John.”

With that simple statement, John’s heart broke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm ending this here for two reasons: 1. When I read the Let's Write Sherlock prompt for the first Challenge, I thought, "I want to kill Mycroft and see how Sherlock would react." And I didn't have much of a plan beyond that, as is painfully evident. 2. I very much make it up as I write, and this is as far as I could go with this. I want to try writing some other stuff but I hate reading unfinished fics, and I know me: if I don't find a place to end this in Chapter 3, I will likely abandon it and anyone who stumbles onto this might be irritated. So I finished this for you, future readers.

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt to write Sherlock fic and first foray into putting something on AO3. I know it's heavy grief stuff and it's only going to get worse before it gets better, but this is the story that came out of my head for the Let's Write Sherlock challenge:
> 
> "After a nearly disastrous case, Sherlock and John share a tense taxi ride back to Baker Street. With emotions running high, they finally arrive back at 221B, and then…"


End file.
